


Forsaken

by Asynca



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: F/F, Gen, I'll write whatever the hell I want to write, Spite Fic, abuse mention, listen babes, so jot that down
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-20 17:13:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17026785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asynca/pseuds/Asynca
Summary: I got a message on tumblr about "shipping an Abuser with their victim" re: Sylvanas/Delaryn, and telling me I was disgusting. I turned all that beautiful anonymous hate energy into a spite fic asking Delaryn how she feels about Sylvanas.





	Forsaken

I’m not used to this feeling. My head swims as if I’m 100 feet underwater, squeezed from all sides by the pressure. It’s cold, and dark, and when I move my body I’m not ever sure it’s moving until I look down and see that it is. My body feels heavy but my bow—huge, even by kaldorei standards—feels weightless in my arms. They don’t ache anymore while I carry—

“Delaryn. Your warchief addresses you.” Her voice is gentle.

I look up from my daze. She’s standing before me on the deck of _The Wailing Banshee_ —shorter than me, I remember. That’s still a shock. “I’m sorry, Dark Lady. I was...” I swallow with a dry throat. “I was…” My sentence trails off. What was I, exactly? My thoughts swirl around in my head like churned water.

A hand touches my numb cheek. “You’ll get used to it,” she promises me. “And the first time an arrow pierces your flesh and it doesn’t hurt, you’ll come to see just as I have that it is not a curse. It is a gift.”

I can only dimly remember what it felt like to be pierced by arrows while I was alive. “Thank you.”

She regards me thoughtfully for a moment, and then drops her hand from my face. I try very hard to focus on her as she wanders away from me, trailing her fingers over the mast, the rigging, the war table. Then, she turns back to me. “I received a very curious message today.”

I’m not sure what to say, so I just listen to her.

She retrieves a parchment that presumably contains the message from her belt, holds it out somewhat ceremoniously, and reads aloud in a mocking tone. “ _’Stop abusing Delaryn and let her die in peace, you monster’_.” When she’s done, she pauses for a moment and then walks up to me, takes my hand, and places the message in it. “What do you think about that message?”

What do I think about anything? I don’t know. I just… _ache_ , somewhere deep within me, some coiling, twisting, wailing part of me. I need to answer her, though, so I do. “I don’t know, Dark Lady.”

She’s watching me closely. “Tell me,” she says, her hand gently closing my fingers around the parchment. She’s always so gentle. “Do I _hurt_ you, Delaryn?”

I slowly shake my head.

“Have I ever been cruel to you, rough with you, or forced you to do something against your will?”

Again, I shake my head.

She acknowledges my answer with a nod. “It the rest of that message true, then, Delaryn? _Do_ you wish to die ‘peacefully’, after all?” Her mouth twists as she says ‘peacefully’.

Yes? No? I don’t know what I want anymore. That’s as good as ‘no’. “No.”

She’s smiling now—she likes being right. She straightens as she smiles, but she’s still not as tall as I. Not even close. “If I’m not your abuser, Delaryn, who am I to you?”

“My warchief,” I say automatically.

As I dwell on that question, though, vague memories slowly return to me. I remember her cold, gentle hands on me as I died. Her warm voice telling me how naïve I was, and how that was the last thought in my mind as I watch Teldrassil—my beautiful, Elune-blessed home—catch alight, rising into terrifying flames and then falling limb by limb into the black ocean below.

I remember my fear, and I remember how I repeated to myself, over and over to try and quell it: Elune would come. Elune would come for us, just as she was coming for me as I died. She would never forsake her children. I would trust her just as I always had to deliver us. And I did. I did trust her. I waited for her, for her gentle light to rescue us, for her to descend from above and rescue her suffering, devoted children from such an awful fate. I waited, and I waited.

I waited until smoke obscured the tree and the charred bodies of my people began to wash up on the shore beside me.

I waited, and I waited, but she never came. I died on that beach with the black waves lapping at my feet, cold, alone, and forsaken by the goddess I’d trusted.

When I was roused again, pulled from my eternal slumber on the warm summer grass of the Emerald fields, someone else surrounded me. The Dark Lady’s people. Her champions. Her Val’kyr. _They’d_ come for me.

Her champion was rough, but the Val’kyr was gentle. Her voice was like honey and her hands soft like fresh snow. ‘It doesn’t have to be over’, she’d told me, and I was drawn back into the cold, dark night, into a cold, dark body.

Back, to face the cold, hard truth I’d come to realise: Elune hadn’t come for us. The Dark Lady had. 

The Dark Lady wasn’t my master, or my abuser, or my tormentor. She was the catalyst for giving me clarity; even as my head swum and my body weighed down on me like a sack of potatoes, it was only now that I really understood just how blind and stupid I’d been in life.

With her gentle hands, she’d tilted my head towards the truth: there is no one who can rescue us but ourselves. We are forsaken.

“Who am I to you, Delaryn?” she repeats. Her face is close to mine but I am not afraid of her.

I’m not afraid because I understand her now. “You’re my saviour,” I whisper, feeling those words become me.

 


End file.
